Past lives couldn't ever hold me down
Lost love is sweeter when it's finally found
I've got the strangest feeling
This isn't our first time around
Past Lives by BØRNS
"One of the Black boys would be an ideal match," a female said, her shrill voice echoing up the rafters until it met the ears of a very intrigued young girl who was up far best her bedtime. Eavesdropping was not a 'lady-like' habit, her mother would say. If her parents didn't want her listening on conversations, though, they ought to tell their guests to whisper. It wasn't as if she was using magic to listen, it was the architecture of their home that made it so simple.
"Yes, I agree. Though that eldest son, sorted in Gryffindor," followed the voice of another gossiping mother.
"His mother must be devastated, though I hear the younger was rightly placed in Slytherin."
"Yes, indeed. Not set to inherit though, is he?"
"No, not unless Walburga removes her eldest from that family tree of hers. Have you ever had the privilege to see it?"
"No, I've never been invited to the Black Mansion. I presume you have?"
"Yes, once. A ghastly piece of artwork; more holes in it than Walburga cares to acknowledge." The statement was followed by a slew of giggles that signaled the end of the conversation, as the women moved away from their alcove, their voices lost in the din of the party.
Rocking back onto her heels, Eleanor lifted herself up from the floor and moved backward against the wall, into the shadows. A house-elf turned the corner at that moment and looked at her, half-shrieking with surprise at seeing it's young mistress still awake. Before she could command it to remain silent, it scurried off down the servant's corridor toward the kitchen. With a sullen shake of her head, she turned back into her bedroom and shut the door with a click. Everything was dark, though she'd left the curtains open and a sliver of moonlight cast an eerie glow on her belongings.
Books were strewn across the floor, accompanied by half-torn parchment paper. Christmas break was an odd time for Eleanor, particularly this year. The home she once found such comfort in was changed. Certainly, the decorations were in abundance, carols sung out of every portrait, and even the odd bustle of mistletoe hung in doorways. Yet all this cheer was accompanied by her mother's coughing fits, the removal of all mirrors, so she couldn't see how ghastly white and hollow her face looked, and the way her father trailed behind her every move, expecting her to collapse any moment. The doctor gave her six months; Eleanor believed that was an optimistic estimate. When summer break came, she didn't expect to have a mother any longer.
Tossing herself down upon the bed, a few books sliding off the side with a thud, Eleanor glanced up at the ceiling. Five years ago, her mother took her aside one evening and informed her she was sick. At the time, it was nothing more than a chest-cold, followed by a worsening illness, followed by weeks in Mungo's, followed by a death-sentence. Every morning, Eleanor convinced herself that she was ready, that when it came time to bid farewell to her mother, she wouldn't shed a tear. Yet every night, lying alone in the dark, distinctly aware of how lonely the world was, she knew that was lie. Her heart was breaking with each day her mother's illness worsened and it would quite possibly never heal again. Yet there were dozens of women below who felt there was nothing more important to discuss than the potential advantageous marriage of their young daughters.
Four days - then she'd be back in the Slytherin common room with her four poster bed, bothersome yet loveable roommates, and the distraction of classes. Before that, though, she'd have to say goodbye to her mother and try to pretend that they both knew it wasn't for the last time.
Authors Note: It's been quite sometime since I dabbled in Fanficition. This story, however, has been sticking with me, refusing to let go. So this is my best attempt to do these characters justice. Please enjoy.
Update 9/11/2016: Adjusted the rating to M, knowing it will turn that direction as the Dark Lord becomes a more pertinent character and the characters encounter more mature themes.